


the beast that is grief

by moonlightmp3



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Allegory, Allusions to Violence, Alternate Universe - Demons, Biting, Blood, Dark, Demon Sehun, Grief/Mourning, Horror, Hospital Setting, Injury, M/M, Needles, Original Character Death(s), Psuedo-Cannibalism, Sehun is a demon after all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 08:06:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9312878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlightmp3/pseuds/moonlightmp3
Summary: ”And each time he gets closer to this man, he can feel the flames. He will consume this heat, the one he has been searching for.”In which a demon becomes just as prominent as illness and injury in the cold hallways of a hospital.Written for EXO MONSTERFEST 2016 - Round One





	

**Author's Note:**

> First, I want to say how excited I am that this fic has been completed, submitted, and praised! This is the first fic I have ever written for a fic fest and the whole experience has been more rewarding, and more challenging, than I could have imagined. It has taken a lot of work and effort and dedication to finish this _monster_ of a fic and I think that reflects its theme of mourning quite well.
> 
> A lot of pain and emotion was put into the making of this story. For anyone who has grieved before, then you understand as well how heavy that pain can be. And as I raced to meet the submission date of this fest, I did all I could to put that same emotion into all 9.5k words of this story.
> 
> This is a fic that deals with a lot of heavy themes and is not for the faint of heart: there is dark imagery and horror elements throughout, befitting of the MONSTERFEST. Please proceed with caution. I added the graphic depictions of violence warning just as a precaution but there is nothing too gruesome illustrated here, there are moreso allusions to violence and injury. Still, I find it to be for the best to properly warn and tag fics accordingly. Also, due to the mystery/suspense themes also present in this fic, if anyone has any questions about a scene/the ending, feel free to comment or contact me and I will happily talk to you about it!
> 
> I want to thank all of the mods at MONSTERFEST for being so patient and understanding with me as I asked for several extensions and for creating this wonderful fest. I am also so grateful to the other talented writers and faithful readers who participated in this fest as well. And of course, I am forever grateful and touched by all of the wonderful, beautiful comments I have received on this fic over at Livejournal and Twitter. It is the most heartwarming thing to hear that my story has resonated and struck a chord with all of you. That is always my goal when it comes to creating stories.
> 
> And most of all, I want to thank the lovely Chester for being my biggest support throughout the creation of this story. His never-ending help and motivation is what made this beast see the light of day and I cannot thank him enough for that. By far, he is the best beta, the best friend, and the greatest love ever.
> 
> And without further ado, I hope you will enjoy this story as well. All hits, kudos, and comments are highly appreciated. Thank you.
> 
> Originally posted on the MONSTERFEST Livejournal [here](http://exomonsterfest.livejournal.com/10016.html).

He could only see in black and white since it happened. 

Everything he laid his sight upon was the same dull grayscale. Not even the stark red blood that stained his fingers and dripped down the length of his arms could be captured by his own pitch black eyes. _Color was for the living_ , he had been told. _For those who still had their soul._ If he had feelings, they would be hurt; but then again, those were only for the living as well.

Those same dark eyes now scanned the cafeteria of the hospital, driven. This is a common setting for his kind to lurk and the blinding, sterile nature of it all was ever so dull to him now. He sighs. With limited sight, he only has his sense of smell to rely on, to seek out what it is he always craves. Hospitals are rank with it, shrouded in misery and grief and, most notably, the coppery yet sweet tang of human blood. 

In the small, offset cafeteria all he can smell is the blood of animals, his pristine hearing picking up the sizzle of a hamburger patty being flipped over on a grill-top. _Unsatisfying_ , the demon concedes. Had he ever been one to partake in a barbeque when he was on this other side? He couldn’t know. All memories of this flesh and blood world have escaped him; all he knows now is that he is a slave to that which he once was. Bitterly, he poses that if he could find his mortal body, he would feast upon that as well.

He arises from his seat, shoulders slumped from not finding his goal. Blood alone can only satisfy him for so long; what he needs most is what courses within it. Misery, woe, loss: rather standard things to find within a hospital and yet he is starving. He stalks through narrow hallways and around corridors, nothing but a shadow unnoticed by those bustling about and others who wail in agony. 

He finds himself in the chilly lower levels of the building, headed straight for the morgue. He always finds himself there when the emptiness aches something fierce and he can’t bear it much longer. There is more of a connection here, surrounded by those that have passed. They are cold and unobtrusive, husks really. He can deal with being around them, is not taken by the monster of hunger that looms from his gut. He can sit in silence, abate what roars within him, and muster any semblance of peace that his sorry self can manage.

The stench of death does not bother him anymore; if anything, it only reminds him of home. He is a wanderer, a beggar, but now surrounded by rows of toe tags that line every wall, he feels just a tremor of belonging. He would brush it aside, however, and reason it was just the draft from an open window.

It is as he is ruminating in this chilling atmosphere that he hears something. He snaps quickly out of his reverie, his hearing heightened now as he picks up the sound of metal clanging, drawers closing, and a very squeaky wheel.

 _The dead do not move_ , Sehun reasons. Though he retracts the thought, realizing he now walks himself. That is very proof of the impossible and so Sehun squares himself into a corner, preparing to be engulfed by an even larger shadow than he.

When the door to the room in question finally opens, he is met with a rather docile sight. What he sees is a tall, gangly, and very much alive man closing a drawer and retracting from the room with a cart.

On the crash cart, as they are often called, are several vials of blood. Sehun is quite accustomed to seeing those, can practically taste the tang of potassium and other vitamins that line each tube, all ready for examination. He shudders on a breath when he can sense its coagulation as well, knowing that it is stale blood and therefore not at its peak ripeness; mere crumbs under the table when compared to his unearthly hunger. Other medical paraphernalia litters the cart as well: torn open alcohol swabs, balled up gauze, tubing that still has faint remnants of blood within it… all so dreadfully boring. 

But the person pushing the cart: oh, he has all of his attention. Tall and lean with muscular arms yet some fat at his hips, face red with exasperation and pulse quickening in speed, with a bead of perspiration trailing from his brow; a delectable sight indeed. His slightly chapped lips part in surprise from seeing another person down in the lower depths of the morgue and Sehun can practically feel the shuddery breath of fright that escapes him. 

If only their lips were locked so Sehun could devour every exhalation.

“You aren’t a patient,” the man remarks, not seeing a robe or bracelet anywhere on the mysterious man that is lurking across the room from him.

“And you are not a mortician,” the demon replies, giving the man a once over and noting the wrinkled scrubs, which he can only guess haven’t seen the wash at all this week. “Long shift?”

“Going on fourteen hours,” Sehun whistles lowly and it only makes the room chillier. The nurse squirms where he stands and grips the cart ever tighter, as if the strange man he has encountered will just wrench it from his grasp.

 _Quite odd_ , Sehun notes. It piques his curiosity and so he motions for the man to take his leave peacefully, knowing full well he will follow quietly in his path. As the man makes his way toward the doorway, Sehun can catch a whiff of his delicious scent waft his way and it makes his nostrils flare, his eyes slipping closed in bliss.

The nurse angles the cart to turn down the hallway headed toward the south wing of the building but he is stopped in his tracks once the mysterious man remarks, “You reek.”

“And you’re creepy,” the human retorts before going on his way.

Sehun chuckles to himself; and if the dead could speak, they would be gasping in fright just from the sound of it.

* * * *

The demon never overstays a welcome he was never granted in the first place but he clings to this particular hospital like the grime on its unwashed walls. It is shabby and unkempt, a last resort for those in need who can’t ask for more, and so he feels it rather fitting. He also finds a bit of reprieve to his eternal boredom by following around the mysterious nurse whom he met a week prior. 

A week can flash by before someone’s eyes rather quickly but in a hospital, it can stretch on for lifetimes. It quite literally does: since Sehun has claimed Our Lady of Lourdes as his own prowling ground, there has been seven births and fifteen deaths. And he would be lying if he said he didn’t take advantage of such ripe, fresh prey to feast upon once they’ve pulled the cover over their listless, frozen faces. He’s a demon, this much is true, but he doesn’t find the deception to be his forte. He doesn’t seem to find anything when he is only on a constant search to make the rumbling in his gut just a little quieter, a little tamer, a bit more easier to manage.

There’s a bloody thumbprint on the nurse’s identification card but Sehun can still read the name printed upon it: Park Chanyeol. He enjoys the way it rolls from his slithering tongue when he utters it; he loves the way it makes the man in question jump when he turns a corner and there the demon is, yet again.

He has a look upon his face that could make angels weep. Passersby could easily mistake the dark circles and slumped cheeks for exhaustion, reasonable with the high-demand job that he is constantly working; but Sehun can too easily translate that look, can practically taste his tear-stained skin from across the room. 

“When was the last time you haven’t cried yourself to sleep?” He whispers when the man exits an examination room. Chanyeol does not flinch from his presence, already becoming accustomed to it. He only freezes, still as stone, and the look in his eyes is unsettling. A death tremor courses along Sehun’s body just from peering into those eyes.

 _When was the last time you’ve even shared a look with anyone else?_ The demon questions himself. Too frenzied with hunger racking his body, he would consume before his next target even knew what was coming; it was easier for the both of them that way.

He notices the way Chanyeol looks now, fondly but longingly staring at a couple who soothe each other, relief in their eyes that the test results the nurse came back with are negative. It makes Sehun wonder what it feels like to receive such a gaze, to have the ardent affections of another person. He wonders, what is it like to be a living creature, one so bright and warm that they not only have emotions but also spark emotions in others?

He rolls his eyes at the sentiments, regarding the couple as ticking clocks and walking flesh that will meet their demise sooner than they can fully grasp. He sees all of their worry and questions and fright over their own mortality as footnotes to the largest statement at hand; that statement being that death is waiting. Patiently, unobtrusively at times. It can be kind and lulling, meeting those in dreams and whispers. And at other times, it is sharp and painful, slashing through any reserve with the cold edge of finality.

And then there is Sehun, with not even the hope of perishing and getting the tiniest bit of reprieve from the suffering he feasts himself upon.

He knocks over the IV Chanyeol is pushing towards the awaiting elevator out of anger, frustration. It is lackluster, however, and the sound of clanging metal and gushing liquid falls on deaf ears; Sehun is already bored with his own outburst. Chanyeol gasps and heats up from the looks of those around him. Although uninterested, Sehun doesn’t fail to notice the pity in their eyes, how a few of them shake their heads and go on with their duties, business as usual. It’s as if all of them are bored with the outburst as well and appoint Chanyeol as the cause of it.

Of course they would: most cannot even see Sehun. He is a shadow that has emblazoned himself on the filthy tiled floors. Those living among him make the hallways ring with their sure, steady steps, not knowing what lurks beneath. They go on their way, so oblivious to the evil that lingers underfoot. Until it is too late, that is.

But most of all, Sehun makes certain that he is not seen, nor heard. Not until his prey is in his grasp is his existence acknowledged and even that is far too long for the demon who wishes he didn’t exist at all. He swallows up every gasp and scream of fright, every plea for mercy, every gurgle and exhalation of life. His adam’s apple bobs as he consumes, the ache in his chest throbs, the pit of his stomach grows that much larger. He closes his eyes and in that second, when the blood first touches his tongue, he feels the tiniest bit of blissful release. 

And in that one second, all the suffering feels worth it.

It is a cruel lie, of course, told to him by his own kind. And yet, time and time again, he makes himself a slave to their word.

He’s slinked back to the morgue once again, but this time not to stew: he has simply followed the nurse back to where they first met. He’s pushing a different cart but the contents are all the same. Only this time, there is so much stale blood upon it that it makes Sehun’s nose crinkle in distaste, while still heightening his curiosity. 

This time is also different in that he notices Chanyeol smells different as well. He has a fresh pair of scrubs on but it isn’t fabric softener that Sehun is focused on: the very scent of Chanyeol’s being has shifted. It is dull, the bags under his eyes drooping just a bit more and the paling of his skin just that much more evident. Easy to overlook in a nurse working double shifts back to back, but Sehun knows this is not due to exhaustion.

Sehun may not know what emotions feel like, but he does know what they smell like. Most of all, he knows what they taste like. Canines ache to dig into Chanyeol’s marred inner elbows, which Sehun has duly noted with a curious eye, and decipher why it is that Chanyeol is shifting and changing, crumbling with each new day, with each stroke of the clock that sets a rhythm, a structure to the often hectic chaos of the busy hospital.

He speaks again and Chanyeol doesn’t jump from the sound of Sehun’s voice, just faces it with open ears.

“You smell different,” Sehun remarks.

“Soap is a thing. And often a recommended one,” is the nurse’s dodgy answer.

“ _You_ smell different,” Sehun reiterates with a more stern voice. It sounds foreign to his own ears, so used to his own feral growls, so used to the white noise of the world bustling around him; moving on, not perturbed by his presence nor absence.

Chanyeol looks like he doesn’t know how to respond, just stands there scratching at his arms and fiddling with the fresh bandage he has placed upon it once finished with packing up his cart and retiring from the morgue. He just stares at Sehun with that same melancholic look, it slightly drifting until Sehun feels like he is being peered through.

He doesn’t appreciate that at all and huffs in aggravation, striding out of the morgue without glancing back. His vision blurs as his hunger flares, beelining for the fifth floor intensive care unit that is currently blaring with an emergency alarm: his cue. But even past all of those loud whirs, those bells and whistles and faint wails of agony, Sehun can hear Chanyeol finally replying to his inquiry.

“It’s because I don’t smell like him anymore.”

* * * *

Word travels nearly as fast as death through the hospital and Sehun has picked up a bit of it as he clings to corners and waltzes through the ICU. Another week has passed and he has heard the words “poor Chanyeol” more times than he can care to count. Mostly the sounds of idle conversation fall into a dull buzz in the background as his gut roars, but this time he is trying to hear it, this time he is turning the dial just like that of a car radio trying to make the words clearer, more distinguishable. He turns too abruptly and his ears are ringing, a high-pitched squealing that has him grasping at his head and squeezing.

The word “grieving” makes him fall to his knees, makes his head spin, makes bone grate on muscle grate on skin. Something about that word, banging at the sides of his skull, makes him that much more ferocious. It makes him want to tip his head back and roar but then Chanyeol has entered the room and all those hushed whispers and high-pitched screams have stopped. They’ve halted so abruptly that Sehun wonders if they were even there in the first place, and knowing that he can’t trust even his own perspective, he resigns himself to the fact that it probably didn’t.

All he knows is what is right in front of him: those eyes that he is staring so quizzically into.

Suddenly, Sehun realizes what those sad, listless eyes of Chanyeol’s really signify. He understands why this spark he once had, that everyone describes, has faded and is slipping between the cracks in the floor. He deciphers the riddle that is his sadness, pumping faintly through his blood, behind those protruding veins that decorate each long arm, each broad hand, and lay hidden along his neck.

He has lost someone very important to him and so he is losing himself as well.

He notices it in the way he bumps into cots that litter the hallways, knocking into examination tables and jumping at the sound of medical tools clanging on the linoleum floor. He observes how unkempt he becomes, how he recycles clothing and now even others are noting the stench that radiates from them. Of course Sehun notices it but he can sense more than uncleanliness clinging to the nurse’s scrubs: it is rank with the particular, unique stench of more than one person and Sehun’s nostrils flare from the unpleasant mixture. 

Hospitals are hardly as sterile as one would like to believe, especially with a ravenous beast claiming it as his own prowling ground, but Sehun wishes he could just cleanse Chanyeol of that scent that he so stubbornly holds onto. He retracts the thought, however, when he notices the second of bliss on Chanyeol’s face upon sniffing his balled up hoodie once he gathers it from his locker.

The action resonates with him and during his next meal he mimics it as he scents the broken skin of his meal’s neck. This particular time, he savors the taste of misery and woe before it quickly slips away, stretching that second so far that it snaps and Sehun crumbles with it. 

This person is nameless, faceless to him, and now he is to the world as well. Now they are falling through the limbo of Sehun’s gut and he wonders for the first time if they know how they perished, if they are capable of thought at all; he wonders what plane of existence they have been cast to, summoned to by Sehun’s hunger. 

He wonders if it is a relief from this one.

Sehun won’t experience that relief even if it is he who bores it and so he cleans his plate, leaving the evidence of it puddled on the linoleum floors for Chanyeol to step through. No one else can feel how it clings and coagulates underneath their shoes but Chanyeol finds himself halted by it. His gaze meets that of Sehun’s who stands at the end of the long, dimly-lit hallway. It is cold and terrifying but Chanyeol can’t look away, can only follow it as his coworkers chat among themselves. 

A shiver of bliss racks through Sehun knowing that just a hint of his scent is now clinging to the nurse as well. He goes on his way with that whisper of devotion tucked into his pocket. It dissipates quicker than the steam rising from another cup of coffee that Chanyeol chugs before his night shift.

Eleven more deaths and still starvation looms over Sehun’s back like a heavy storm cloud. It is snowing outside of the hospital walls now but a chill has lingered in every hallway since Sehun’s arrival. The changing seasons do not matter to him, do not faze him; all that matters is his next meal and when he is going to get it, when he is going to _take_ it.

Usually a scavenger, he finds himself the predator when it comes to Chanyeol: he watches, he waits. He begins following him home from work, sitting at a window seat on the train but staring at Chanyeol with cold eyes the entire time, observing. The front door is open to him and he does not hesitate to waltz through it. He is so taken by the potent smell of Chanyeol everywhere that it takes him all day and all of his dwindling strength not to be overtaken by it. 

It is hard for him to make out the pictures that line the walls once he cares to glance at them but he does not hesitate in breaking each one as Chanyeol lies to himself that he will sleep tonight, tossing and turning in bed. The sound of broken glass and how it crunches undertoe in the morning when he leaves for work doesn’t faze him and it has the demon coursing with even more inquiries.

He’s complacent in being broken but so is Sehun. 

He doesn’t question his own ragged state, just moves on with it. He drags himself to his next feast and before he has even wiped the blood ungracefully from his mouth, he is picking up the fading pulse of another and clambering over to feast upon them as well. He is driven by instinct; not even a nervous system rapidly firing off impulses and directing him to survival, he is just a being that _exists_ and that fact alone is suffering in itself. He has the capacity for thought, however, and that is the most hellish thing he could have been inflicted with alongside the unearthly hunger; now he can ponder his own empty existence and empty stomach.

Now he can ponder why the nurse’s eyes look especially sad today, like he woke up with his chest feeling just a little bit heavier and his breathing just a bit more shallow. This time the evidence of his tears aren’t all that’s remaining. Now red eyes and puffy cheeks are accompanied by actual tears and he’s rushing to the bathroom after dropping yet another patient sample onto the tiled floor.

These are tears of frustration: Sehun can practically taste how bitterly they fall from his full eyelashes and litter the bathroom sink. Chanyeol balls up his undershirt sleeves to his face and smothers a scream. It makes Sehun just as frustrated in return: because those are _his_ , he should be swallowing up those screams, not some cheap cotton. He wants to inhale every shout and utterance of curse words and exhale “ _you’re mine_ ” with each stolen breath. He craves it more than the blood that lays waiting in flesh just beyond this room and the bang of a bathroom stall door is all that can shake Chanyeol from his pending breakdown.

He regards the demon from the reflection in the mirror with wide, shocked eyes and his mouth agape. His lips are shiny, just like his eyes, and Sehun growls.

_He shouldn’t look this delectable._

It makes the demon just want to take him, consume him, have him and everything that composes him swirling in the abyss that is his gut. It is this anger that makes him strike the mirror that holds the faint, hazy image of himself standing beside something, someone, that through all of his dullness still radiates warmth. The faint image of smiling faces and long sashes and deep red roses pinned to lapels lay on each piece of broken glance that Chanyeol is scrambling to pick up and when he stands to be level with the demon, he’s crying again.

He can see it too and Sehun doesn’t need to press his wily tongue to stained skin to know that. These tears are bore from sadness and an all-encompassing one. It is a sadness so strong that Chanyeol doesn’t care about losing his job as he continues to stand in the bathroom, making eyes at a mysterious creature with shards of glass still in his grasp. Sehun isn’t sure what he’s looking for when his eyes are as empty as this vessel that holds no soul and for a second he thinks he’s seeing right through them when he grips just a little tighter, just enough to pierce skin but it is shallow and unmoving, just a tiny prick.

That’s what he heard Chanyeol say to a child who needed an IV put into their tiny wrist as they sat still and scared on an emergency room cot. Sehun could hear that voice, soothing and deep, and he continued to think of it as the hospital's death toll rose to twenty. 

_Just a tiny prick, just a little puncture, just a subtle snap of my jaw._

He isn’t scared of just a little puncture or a lot of pain, Sehun finally states to himself. Chanyeol isn’t afraid because he’s experienced a pain much greater than his mortal body can ever suffer: the pain of loss.

That is why he regards Sehun with melancholic eyes whenever the demon is lurking. That is why it seems like he is far away, so displaced from the environment of the busy hospital that he might as well be floating above it. Sehun can see it in his eyes, the questions gone unanswered; he’s already deduced that the nurse’s frequent and building breakdowns are rapidly occurring just so he can prove that he’s even alive. And the solid as stone silence that quickly follows is an expression of Chanyeol’s distaste with the answer to that question. Or perhaps the resignation that it will go forever unanswered.

As Sehun tears his prey to shreds and gorges himself insatiably on the remains, he does so with anger making his blood boil. His frustration is feverous, all-encompassing, and most of all distracting. The questions are starting to scream louder than the hunger and he needs to growl from as deep within his chest as he can muster because he lacks any other way to express it. Chanyeol can hear it all the way from eight floors down but he doesn’t make a peep in answer, just mimics those unbothered around him who cannot pick up the wretched sound.

The tail-end of it is broken and gravelly and Sehun’s throat bobs as he swallows around the sound. There’s still remnants of death number twenty-nine stuck between his canines but he is done with this one, too frenzied to even pretend this could sate his hunger; so utterly fed up and spent and _tired_.

He has been trudging along for so long, barely holding on by a thread and now he has finally snapped. He isn’t relinquishing himself to the madness; instead, he is pushing against it rather than bending to it. He is charging, sure and steady, back down to the morgue, back to where that scent had first filled the air and seized all semblance of composure that he was pretending to have at all. He is emerging from the very shadows he’s concealed himself in to meet the world with every gruesome detail that no human ever wants to utter.

Chanyeol is there already but Sehun knew that, had followed his scent like a dog so keen on retrieving the bone he had buried. The demon is brazen and barking like a stray as well, making the nurse jump once the door to the preparation room is swinging open, making the walls reverberate with his growls.

The nurse was not expecting this, too busy with a tourniquet around his arm and a needle in hand to be warned of his arrival. It falls to the floor with a light clang that rings in their ears, rolling under the cart beside Chanyeol. With wide eyes and a burning red face, the tail end of the tourniquet still clamped between his teeth, Chanyeol holds the gaze of the demon who is staring daggers right back at him.

“This is why you smell different,” Sehun starts. He’s not asking questions or making conjectures. He just puts it simply when he continues, “Because it’s not only your blood that you possess.”

Chanyeol truly looks like a trapped animal and not even the staticky, pinprick numbness that is spreading throughout his arm prompts him to find a way to escape. The blood is on his hands quite literally, for he has those prepped examination tubes lined on his cart; only these ones have not been filled and exchanged just yet. 

The answers are all there, right before Sehun’s very eyes. And even through the foggy sheath that covers them, he can see clearly what is happening. And yet, he still wants to _know_.

“Why?”

That seems to take Chanyeol off guard and he releases the rubber strip from between his teeth, his mouth falling open in confusion.

“No one has ever asked you that question, have they? No one has ever asked you why you do something, why you are like this.” Sehun is sounding more feral with each second that passes. He finds it unusual to use his voice after being shrouded in silence, strange to use his mouth for something that isn’t tearing and gnawing and insatiably swallowing, but he continues nonetheless.

He figures he should be asking himself the same question he’s asking Chanyeol.

Gaping and heaving, too scared or too confused to come up with an answer quickly, Chanyeol takes to grabbing for another needle instead, tearing it from its sterile confinements. He’s visibly desperate and unsettled and it frustrates Sehun even more.

“Stale blood, blood of the recently deceased, why?” His voice is louder now, booming and making the walls shake. He’ll scream as loud as he needs to, he decides. No one will be able to hear him anyway.

No one except for Chanyeol and Sehun wonders why he is indulgently fond of that fact.

“You’re draining yourself of something that you require and replacing it with this excuse and no one knows, do they? And no one cares to ask why, do they?”

“I need to try!” Chanyeol finally snaps back and it has the demon clicking his mouth shut. The room is silent, empty save for the two of them and the rows of the deceased that line each wall. 

And so all is still.

Chanyeol has tears in his eyes but when does he not nowadays. He’s hiccuping when he speaks, too weak and tired to expel his energy into sobbing and so he tries to hold it in, hold it all in. But then those words fall from his lips and his thread is breaking just as Sehun’s is.

“I need to try for him. I need to do this for him,” he answers. He looks into Sehun’s eyes, really looks into them, and this is the first time in his whole sorry existence that Sehun has felt present, in this moment that feels stretched to the breaking point. “It needed blood, right? My blood. So here: they can have it. And I’ll claim another just like they claimed him.”

Sehun’s shoulders fall and his anger slowly but surely subsides. Chanyeol’s words are cryptic but they are spoken in Sehun’s language: it tells tales of making a deal with the devil. And Chanyeol has supplied the signature. 

The demon bores holes into him with his stare, searing Chanyeol’s bruised and bloodied skin with his intense gaze. Silence may fall upon them but the fluorescent lights overhead still buzz on the ceiling above, one in the corner flickering and sputtering and so close to being blown out. It reveals every detail of Sehun’s face, his body: the way it is faced towards Chanyeol in all of its ferocity and rawness; the way it is so tragically beautiful and stunningly damned.

The sudden swell of attention makes Chanyeol’s skin crawl but it’s not like he doesn’t secretly enjoy it. Ever since _it_ happened, he became silent as stone. And no one likes talking to a brick wall, so they all scattered rather quickly, not wanting to tackle the beast of grief, and certainly not of a grief that is not their own. He got used to the radio silence, though it buzzed and grated on his ears. And now there is this man, if he is even man at all, taking a sudden interest in him. It is chilling but Chanyeol decides that he probably deserves the shivers. 

Sehun isn’t the same one he spoke to in shadows and whispers, he recalls. That demon was a mere silhouette, a masquerade of what he most desired: and that was for his love to be by his side again, to have to hold to cradle. He would grasp at the air and only catch the absence that lingered in it, aching. It was suffocating, it was unbearable. And that dark angel could sense that.

The more Chanyeol gave to them, the clearer they became. Shadows became denser, their voice more discernable and deep, until their whole being became something that Chanyeol could just reach out and grab. So desperate to hold on, Chanyeol tried to, his arm outstretched and voice begging. 

“I did everything you asked,” he whispered brokenly. “Please, I need them. I’ll do anything, I did everything.” 

His pleas were only answered with a calculated chuckle. It was so lazy and quiet that the sound of his heart breaking could be heard over it. The figure finally turned and Chanyeol fell to his knees: his love was facing him, just as beautiful as he was when he said his farewells and went on his way to work, only to never return. The usual twinkle in his eyes was gone, the joy that was usually in his laughter became a mockery instead, and that wicked smile was anything but warm and welcoming. That may be his birthmark pressed so cutely to his high cheekbone and he may also have his scar along his right arm but this was not the person he fell in love with.

And still, it’s as if Chanyeol’s body and mind are aching so much for love, for anything at all, that he doesn’t care that he is staring into the eyes of a demon. He doesn’t mind the glint of evil that runs through this being in all of its stolen facade. He just needs someone, the one, so badly that he crawls so pitifully towards them all the same.

“Please, I need you,” it is said so quietly that the words hide inside of his throat, intimidated by that who stands before him; just like he was when they went on their first date together and he had forgotten his wallet at home. It had gone so well that he had decided that very night that he would spend any amount of fortune to keep his love happy. And he also vowed that even through death and sickness, he will hold true to that promise. 

He may be weak and reeling, but he clings to that promise especially tight now: it is the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

All the air escaped him as he felt a blow to his chest, the toe of a boot knocking into him and tipping him back. He is faced with the cold reality of his life once more, reminded of how lonely it really is. The shadows are gone, that beautiful yet deceiving face is nowhere to be found and still that tightness in his chest remains. He feels tethered and with each pull of a new, miserable day, he is sapped of that much hope, will, _life_. With each day, his heartbeat grows more faint and he knows that one day, and one day soon, it will stop altogether.

His pulse is a ticking clock now and it pounds against his eardrums. Its strength is dwindling and racing thoughts of salvation and solutions roar louder than it ever could. Ever so loyal, Chanyeol knows he can _fix this_ , even if the impossibilities are all spelled out in front of him. He knows when it comes to his love, he will always _try_.

The promises seemed cheap enough. Locks of their hair, a love letter a drop of his blood: those were easily attainable. His blood, just like his love, was in a large, ready supply and Chanyeol would give it all in an instant to save his lost love. Shoeboxes full of memories were turned to ash once they were placed into the deceiving demon’s fists, that one drop of blood setting it all aflame.

That one drop of blood being all it needed to claim Chanyeol’s soul and the testament to his love.

There was no way he could have known what exactly he had just done. This is why the wily demon had approached him at all: because it preyed on the weak and desperate. Chanyeol fit that so perfectly in the wake of his grief: he was such an easy, vulnerable target. And too focused on his loss that he was oblivious as well.

Chanyeol thought it all sounded like a sonnet; rather, it was a death wish.

Sehun has stared into the eyes of death itself before. And yet, the look in this man’s eyes as he recalls the deal he made has even him shivering. The sadness, the melancholy, the _longing _; it makes his own hunger begin to flare, makes him want to turn over every gurney in search of it.__

__In search of salvation, a word he can’t even utter; just spit out like another meal that doesn’t satisfy._ _

__He wants to ask him, “ _what is it like to love?_ ” but refrains; keeps himself contained and bubbling under the surface. Suppressed and compartmentalized, tucked away like another layer of hell. And one of the deeper ones._ _

__He wants to drag himself to the very center of it, just to feel the fire._ _

__And each time he steps just a little closer to this man, he can feel the flames. He can feel this spark, this warmth ignite within him. He will chase that feeling, on bloodied, broken feet, endlessly; just to know what it feels like to finally crumble._ _

__He will consume this heat, this very one he has been searching for, and will not rest until the flames are licking up his spine and igniting his bones._ _

__Hands find their way clutching onto Chanyeol’s body and pressing him to the tiled wall behind him. He knocks into it with an audible smack but Sehun’s grasp is there to catch him, to hold him, to keep him caged. This is right where he’s wanted him all along, anyway. He’s wanted to pin Chanyeol down and finally have the taste and essence of him in his possession for a long while now and it makes him pant with need to finally have it._ _

__Hands move reverently over Chanyeol’s skin, tracing the protruding line of his veins: it starts at the radial artery that flutters in his wrist, a finger gliding up and dipping along the brachial that has been marred and tattered by Chanyeol’s constant intrusions and then falls upon his carotid, feeling with devious joy how blood thunders from within it. Tightly and with eagerness, Sehun wraps his hand around Chanyeol’s neck to feel just how fast his pulse is pumping now, when at the mercy of a walking nightmare._ _

__Sehun presses full lips to the column of his neck then, dragging them along the side of his face until he reaches his ear, his stale ragged breath searing heat against his skin. He smells of coalfire and raw meat that has been left to sit for too long, casting a shadow over Chanyeol that feels more like the absence of space than the spectrum of every color. His teeth are dull when they finally sink into the flesh above his pulse point, making the break of skin that much more ferocious in nature. Chanyeol could only shake in his grasp, forgetting what it’s like to breathe and getting swept by the feeling of dizziness._ _

__That firm grasp, ever so present, presses deeper on his windpipe until that grip is the only thing keeping the man upright. Mustering all the capacity of speech that he can, he speaks but two sentences before slumping completely in the demon’s arms._ _

__“Go ahead. I died a long time ago.”_ _

__He is right here: all that Sehun craves, has ached after for what feels like centuries. Every inch of his supple, ripe flesh just laying right there, for the taking. But… he can’t. There is something in him, keeping him from taking that which he most desires. And that is because, he cares too much to just take._ _

__He _cares_ and it nauseates him just to think that but it’s true. _ _

__His stomach lurches, churning with too many emotions. They are dull but sharp, like a weathered down knife just tore ungracefully through his gut. He feels like he’s going to be sick and then suddenly, he feels too full, too heavy. Timeless emptiness and yet here he is, doubled over and ready to vomit._ _

__So much, rushing through him all at once, like he was suddenly dunked under water and swept up in rushing waves. Too much, making his blood pressure spike; a child kicking a stone so the river can rush once more. A tea kettle whistling through the kitchen as a woman rushes to take it off the stove. A gust of wind making a balloon reach towards the sky: so many images flashing right before his eyes that they roll back into his skull just to escape the onslaught of memories._ _

__Memories: that’s what these are. It is in this moment that Sehun realizes that he’s never known the meaning of yesterday and yet here are a thousand strung out before his very eyes. It is so much, too much and he finds himself reeling. He’s so dizzy and disoriented that he doesn’t realize he’s passed out until Chanyeol isn’t beside him any longer._ _

__The room has dissipated as well and he realizes he is in an open field. The long stretches of nothingness are nearly blinding but then, over the plains, he spots her: a figure, so familiar. Just seeing her silhouette makes his heart ache with longing. His body keens, rushing towards her but he is achingly slow, as if his limbs are being pulled in every direction by waves and he is just sinking further under the ocean until he drowns._ _

__He seeks her, seeks her warmth and familiarity, seeks the one that could always make the whole world around her fall away to accommodate her neverending beauty and grace._ _

__He does get that warmth but it is in the form of blood on his hands, dripping down to something so terrifying he can’t bear to look at it. He’s screaming but it’s like he is in a vacuum: the more he screams, the more deafening the silence becomes until all breath is expelled from his lungs and he is heaving for air. Everything is swirling around him and he can’t take it _he can’t take it_. a whole lifetime of pain has made him numb to it but now it feels like he is rushed on adrenaline and he can't _he can’t_._ _

__And then suddenly, it is like he has always known. He has just lived in this grief for so long that he has become complacent in it, made a home in the empty shell that he had become following this loss. He tried and yet he has failed. And he could never forgive himself for what he has become._ _

__A monster with blood staining his lips like the makeup his mother used to apply every morning before going off to work; _her blood_ staining his lips. _Her blood _swirling in the pit of his gut. The very essence of her being so ferociously consumed by the very person she gave life.___ _

____He has lost himself, just like Chanyeol is so dangerously close to, the second he saw the lifeless look in his mother’s eyes. Once he came to, once consciousness returned to him, once he realized their car was toppled over and his arm was twisted and broken, he knew he couldn’t go on without the person most precious to him. Such a life would be impossible, unbearable; too filled with pain and woe that even if all of his wounds healed, he would still be left just as broken as he is now._ _ _ _

____The demon who met him on the side of the road knew that as well. He spoke to Sehun amidst his whimpers and wails, promising him relief from this unutterable misery. The state of shock the broken boy was in made him urgent, grasping at any shred of survival he could manage. His broad chest was heaving, feeling so small in the wrecked, compacted car._ _ _ _

____But those whispers, those promises of a relief to this pain, sounded like a saving grace to Sehun._ _ _ _

____With each wretched swallow and slithery promise uttered, Sehun can feel himself floating further away from his body. He pales and withers like the flowers his mother had kept on her bedside table, petals drooping and stem brittle._ _ _ _

____As he’s peering at himself from afar, he feels so claustrophobic, so tiny and vulnerable and trapped. His mortal body is but a shell of what it once was: an empty husk driven only by hunger, something so void and vacant. It is a cruel insult upon humanity, one that he wants to detach from completely._ _ _ _

____The world around him grows dark, grey. All color and life converge to one point like a black hole, an endless pit: and Sehun is at the center of it. He is being swallowed by it and he realizes just before he is blinded by light that it was his own hunger, his own gut that he was being exiled to._ _ _ _

____Before he can sink completely into the abyss and be swallowed whole by the beast of what he is becoming, that light is piercing through the haze and freeing him. It is so bright that he can’t register what is going on around him, can just feel how tight restraints are loosened from his limbs and that thick weight is being shed from his back. He is no longer kept in the shadows, no longer a slave to the darkness. He can feel it in the depths of himself, the swell of his heart, the twinkle returning to his eyes. There is hope and elation, there is clarity and peace._ _ _ _

____And there is also Chanyeol._ _ _ _

____He can’t see him, but he can _feel_ him; not in hints along his nostrils or on the very tip of his tongue. But inside of him, wrapped along him, filling him and surrounding him completely. It is Chanyeol in all of his beauty and emotion, all that makes him human._ _ _ _

____Chanyeol’s soul: that’s what this fluttery feeling is, that’s what is seizing his body and making him feel whole. It melts within his core and spreads throughout his whole body, all that he was searching for finally within his grasp._ _ _ _

____There are no torturous flames, no engulfing fire. There is only a gentle warmth washing over his body and making it whole._ _ _ _

____His heart is calling out but it is not with his own voice._ _ _ _

____Of course it wouldn’t be: his soul is still damned. It is still soiled and churning with possession and sorrow. No, this is Chanyeol’s voice instead, sure and deep, whispering into his mind, that is finally peaceful, that he is his. That all of him is now all of Sehun’s._ _ _ _

____“I own you now?” The mind calls back to the heart and by the way its beats are steady, Sehun knows that it is true. His search has finally proved fruitful and with the sweetest one of them all._ _ _ _

____“ _I own you now _,” he repeats reverently.___ _ _ _

______And then, he feels a tingle. It is gentle, unobtrusive, but there all the same. It radiates from the tips of his fingers, wraps around his knuckles and tickles his wrists. So foreign, so strange, but so soothing as well; soothing this deep ache. Chanyeol’s soul sheaths him completely until those memories are finally put to rest._ _ _ _ _ _

______In the end, Chanyeol’s soul was his saving grace._ _ _ _ _ _

______And in the end, Sehun chose to set it free._ _ _ _ _ _

______* * * *_ _ _ _ _ _

______There’s a heavy storm thundering on outside the hospital and Chanyeol is stuck inside it, filling in for another employee. He feels like utter shit from exhaustion and not enough breaks but he continues punching in his time card, mind racing too fast for him to process the fatigue of his body._ _ _ _ _ _

______He has a moment to steal and so he takes it by resting his eyes and leaning against the front desk of the triage area. Heavy raindrops and computer keyboard strokes fill his ears and he finds it rather peaceful. He even thinks that he could fall asleep standing up if the bad weather continues and his pager doesn’t go off with another emergency contact._ _ _ _ _ _

______His moment of rest is interrupted when the doors to the emergency room are flung open, the sound of pelting frozen rain becoming louder; though not too loud to drown out the shouts of the man who walks through those doors. He is limping and wailing and slightly scaring Chanyeol’s coworker who has been tasked with the front desk for the night but he doesn’t focus on any of that._ _ _ _ _ _

______All Chanyeol can focus on his how this man’s face is familiar: how it has been in his dreams every night._ _ _ _ _ _

______The man is soaked from head to toe with drops of cold rain mingling with his hot tears, his broken body racking with shivers. He looks confused and disoriented but from the way his arm is twisted and blood stains the leg of his pants, this is exactly where he needed to be._ _ _ _ _ _

______Before more personnel could make it down to ground level, having been phoned in by the shaky voice of the triage nurse over the pager system, the man collapses and winces in pain. It is not his injuries he is grasping, however: it is his face as he sobs once more and finally speaks._ _ _ _ _ _

______“Y-you need to help. She’s still out there, she’s badly hurt. I-I think she’s dead, I--” he breaks down into tears, covering his eyes with his hands and repeating between sobs. “Oh god no, she’s dead. She’s dead.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______That voice is wavering from more than the cold and the rawness of his emotions is far different than the indifference Chanyeol had been faced with before but he cannot mistake who this man is. He never could, after all they had been through._ _ _ _ _ _

______He knows exactly who this is._ _ _ _ _ _

______The mysterious man is being tended to now, surrounded by nurses and doctors who gauge his condition and try to make sense of what he is saying. The sudden swell of attention is obviously making him that much more upset and harder to understand so Chanyeol intervenes._ _ _ _ _ _

______“I know him,” he informs the EMT who had been alerted there may be an emergency situation elsewhere that he needs to rush to. “Let me handle this.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______After being rushed to minor surgery and calmed down enough on sedatives to inform the doctor of the car accident he had narrowly survived, crews were sent out to the wreckage to retrieve the person who lay lifeless within it: the man’s mother. The accident had happened miles away, along an empty dirt road that no one traversed, especially this deep into winter. Chanyeol could only imagine the strength it took for Sehun to limp all the way here, a broken arm cradled in the other and a shard of glass still deeply embedded into his leg._ _ _ _ _ _

______But Chanyeol also understands that the human body is capable of amazing things: it is resilient, adaptable, persevering. A soul can be much more easily wounded and lose itself to grief. But a soul can also reach heights unimaginable to mortality; it can survive all._ _ _ _ _ _

______Once the man had been stitched up and his arm set into a cast, Chanyeol was prompted to watch him and check his vitals regularly. He nodded eagerly and went into the room, glad to have a moment in solitude._ _ _ _ _ _

______He knew the man was fond of solitude._ _ _ _ _ _

______The sight he is greeted with is one he is more accustomed to: the man with a frozen, apathetic expression on his face with only the glow of streetlamps filtering in through the window illuminating the room. Snapping him out of his reverie by announcing he just needs to check his blood pressure reminds Chanyeol of the first time they met. And by the way those thick brows furrow and the man’s back goes rigid, it is made clear to Chanyeol that he doesn’t remember it at all._ _ _ _ _ _

______Chanyeol decides he is thankful for that lapse in memory._ _ _ _ _ _

______It doesn’t take long for the man to break down into sobs once more. The wounds are still fresh and Chanyeol knows from experience that they will be far after his injuries have healed. This time, without a large open room full of waiting patients and urgent healthcare professionals pinning down the broken man with their gaze, he more freely expresses his loss. He recounts what has happened and who it has happened to in bits and pieces, out of order and all over the place, just as frenzied as Chanyeol was when he expressed his own loss to him from within the morgue floors below them._ _ _ _ _ _

______And Chanyeol listens. Even when the man can barely speak through his tears, even when he is speaking so mournfully and ominous and hopeless, he listens._ _ _ _ _ _

______Silence falls upon them once the man’s throat is too tight to continue on. They sit in it for a while, listening to the rain, to the rhythmic beat of the machine he is hooked to for the time being, and eventually to his pulse when he needs to record his vitals once more._ _ _ _ _ _

______It is then that Chanyeol speaks. It is then that, after a long while of trapping himself in sadness, he expresses what has been in his newly filled and hopeful heart for a while now._ _ _ _ _ _

______“You’re safe, Sehun,” he tells him. “You’ll be okay. Everything will be okay.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______“How do you..?” The man asks and Chanyeol points to the chart in his hands that holds as much information that Sehun could give in his delirious state once rushed off by doctors and prodded for answers._ _ _ _ _ _

______It is the first time Chanyeol has learned the name of the being that had lurked through the nightmare his life had become and waltzed into the dreams that followed._ _ _ _ _ _

______“You will be able to get through this,” Chanyeol states with no preamble and Sehun looks up to him with wide, glistening eyes, his mouth slightly parted. His brows are furrowed and the silence that follows Chanyeol’s statement enables him to hear the whimpers bubbling from within the other man’s throat._ _ _ _ _ _

______He continues. He feels like he needs to._ _ _ _ _ _

______“I know it doesn’t feel like it now. And it may never feel like it. But you will live through this.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______And then simply, quietly, he states, “You can live through this for her.”_ _ _ _ _ _

______Sehun’s eyes are wide and vulnerable as he stares at Chanyeol. The nurse’s heart swells from seeing the woe and sorrow that is spread across Sehun’s face but this is what he wants to see. The alternative is too horrid and gruesome for him to even think of. The alternative is more painful than any loss or grief could ever be. The monsters they were becoming, had become, were too grotesque and horrid and evil to ever be worth the relief they had been promised._ _ _ _ _ _

______Even if the days seemed endless and the pain unbearable, even if they could barely make it to the end of the week without breaking down and remembering what they have suffered, even if the happy memories become as sharp and heartbreaking as the tragic ones, they had to keep on moving. For the ones they love most, they had to keep on _trying_._ _ _ _ _ _

______“And you don’t have to go through it alone,” Chanyeol adds in a hushed whisper._ _ _ _ _ _


End file.
